


if you let me, here's what i'll do (i'll take care of you)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Skoulson babes making food for each other, implied Daisy/Lincoln, mention of Coulson/Rosalind, sandwiches are important business, turns into established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5215349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Daisy and Coulson make a sandwich for each other (and one time they don't)</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you let me, here's what i'll do (i'll take care of you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrilliantlyHorrid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrilliantlyHorrid/gifts), [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts).



> here is some total fluff involving Skoulson caretaking and food tropes. Post 3x07, still.

Coulson knows, of course, that the thing with Rosalind is probably going to end badly. It doesn't stop him from feeling it when it inevitably does, and he tries, he  _tries_ not to mope, but (also of course) Daisy notices, and she doesn't say anything but her eyes are thoughtful.

He's in his office late that night, having a morose drink, and she knocks on the door, enters without pausing.

"Hey," she says, companionably, and sets a plate down in front of him.

"What-" he says, confused, because Daisy has made him a sandwich. Why has Daisy made him a sandwich.

"It's a break-up sandwich," she tells him, as if it should be obvious, and he frowns.

"A grilled cheese is a break-up sandwich?"

"Yeah," Daisy agrees, "but it's not a grilled cheese. It's a grilled PB&J."

"You grilled a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?" Coulson asks, feeling extremely skeptical, and Daisy just rolls her eyes, gives him an expectant look.

"Just try it, okay," she says, and Coulson's polite, so he picks up one triangle, takes a careful bite. It's... not bad, actually, not what he was expecting. It's crunchy, a little melty, and the jelly is sweet against the salt of the peanut butter.

"Hmm," he says, keeps eating, and Daisy smiles, steals his glass of scotch, sips it slowly while he finishes the sandwich.

"The thing is," she says after a moment of silence. "When you're living in a van, cheese isn't really something you can cook with. No fridge, right? And diner food is  _expensive_ , and when I was feeling really miserable, I could sometimes order a pizza, but not often. But I had a camp stove, and when I wanted a grilled sandwich, I experimented. Grilled PB&J, it's the culmination of careful work, okay."

"It's good," Coulson agrees, because it  _is_ good. "Strawberry jelly?"

"Yeah," Daisy says, "it's better than grape." She finishes his stolen drink, gets to her feet, gently touches his shoulder. "Feeling better?" she asks, and to his surprise, he is.

"I am," he tells her, soft, and she smiles again, reaches out and swipes her thumb across the corner of his mouth, licks it slowly off.

"Strawberry jelly," she says, "you had a little-" and oh, right, of course.

He tries to pretend, later, that he's not thinking about her touch, but he is, he's thinking about it, and it's sweeter than strawberry jam on his lips.

 

+

 

Daisy throws herself into work when Lincoln decides to shift permanently to the Cocoon, and if Coulson wasn't looking so carefully, he'd think nothing was wrong. He  _is_ looking, though, and he sees it, the shadows under her eyes, the way she smiles less easily.

She's sitting at the briefing table, going over team assessments, and he knows she's felt him coming through his vibrations, but she doesn't look up until he sits down across from her, slides the plate across the table.

"Whuhhh..." she says, takes the pen out of her mouth, stops frowning down at the paperwork, and Coulson smiles involuntarily because she's entirely too endearing.

"Misery sandwich," he says. "You looked like you needed one." Daisy raises an eyebrow, picks up the first half.

"You cut the crusts off," she says, and he nods, because hello, of course he did. She bites into it, makes a little noise that's too much for Coulson to think about, chews and swallows. "Oh," she says, "fuck, that's  _good_ , what is it?"

"Grilled cheese, but you said you used to order pizza, sometimes, when you were miserable, so it's kind of a margherita grilled cheese, with basil and heirloom tomatoes. Turns out we can't actually order pizza delivery to a secret spy base, more's the pity."

"Huh," Daisy says lightly, "what a disappointment," and then basically shoves the entire half into her mouth. "Oh god," she groans again through the mouthful, "seriously, I didn't realize I was so hungry, I've been working for hours, I guess." She stretches out her back, makes a start on the pile, and Coulson's glad he just made a heap of them. He's seen how Daisy eats now that she's gone through her terrigenesis. Her metabolic rate's skyrocketed; he doesn't think she's eating nearly enough as she needs to, sometimes.

"Someone should take better care of you," Coulson says, and he means it jokingly but it must come out a little wistful, because Daisy looks across at him, makes a sad little face. "Oh- I didn't mean-" he tries to correct, and she sighs, bites her lip and runs a finger along the rim of the plate.

"Yeah," she says, "I know," and eats another sandwich. There's a long stretch of quiet, and although Coulson wouldn't say it in so many words, he's happy just to sit here and look at her, to watch the way her shoulders become a little less weary. "We weren't like that," Daisy says, abrupt enough that he's startled by it. "Lincoln and I. I know you think we were - that we were dating, that we were in a relationship, but it never... it just never happened, I guess. Wrong time. Wrong guy."

"Oh," Coulson says. "But he, I mean, the way he looks at you..."  _I can see it_ , he thinks, because he knows how it feels to look at Daisy that way.

"I kissed him," Daisy tells him, quiet. "Back before the ATCU. When I was trying to convince him to come in. But when he finally joined us, I realized so fast I couldn't lead him in a team if we were, you know, a  _thing_. I guess I haven't learned how to compartmentalize as well as you." Coulson winces, and Daisy bites her lip again. "Sorry," she adds, "that wasn't, I mean..."

"It's okay," he says, because it is. Even if it were a dig, he figures she's a little entitled to it.

"Anyway," she says, with finality. "He transferred to the Cocoon, so he's not in Secret Warriors, but it..." She trails off, traces her finger around the edge of the plate again, swallows. "I thought, dating another Inhuman, you know, I thought I'd be able to feel like I was something normal. Something special. But he hates this so much, hates everything that being Inhuman means. I can't ignore that. There's too much between us. It wouldn't work."

"It still hurts," Coulson guesses, and she nods, takes a deep breath.

"Yeah," she agrees, "yeah, it still hurts. But good misery sandwich, Phil, thanks."

"Any time," Coulson tells her, reaches across the table and puts his hand over hers, and when she eats her last bite, she smiles.

 

+

 

The workload is even more intense in the aftermath of the disaster with the ATCU, and both Coulson and Daisy are overworked constantly, until even Coulson remembers the days when they only had to deal with Hydra somewhat fondly. She's off on field missions often enough that he almost, almost learns how to stop worrying about her every time (he doesn't, he doesn't think he'll ever learn) and she has so much work managing Secret Warriors that after weeks of working at the briefing table, she huffs in frustration, moves another desk and chair into his office without even asking first.

"I figured it was more expedient," is all she says when he comes in, sees the way the desk is pushed up against his, and it's a solution he loves maybe more than he should.

Daisy puts down her tablet one afternoon, leaves the room without a word, and when she comes back twenty minutes later, it's with a plate of sandwiches that she sets down neatly in the center of their two desks.

"Working lunch," she tells him, "don't get too excited, it's just turkey and swiss, but someone told me I should be taking better care of myself."

"That's not what I said," Coulson murmurs, "I said  _someone_ should take better care of you," but he reaches for a sandwich anyway.

"Are you offering?" Daisy mutters under her breath, and he chokes on his bite, looks up at her in shock, but she's got her head down, industriously studying her briefing like she never said anything at all.

"These are really good," he says after a minute, when he thinks he can actually trust his voice again, and she nods, takes another bite.

"Don't tell Jemma, but I stole some of her pesto aioli," she admits, smirks a little, and Coulson snorts. "Hey," she adds, "so, this mission, I was thinking, what if we went in in thundercloud formation?"

"Hmmm," he says, considers her plans. "It's a bold move. Could be risky."

"Yeah, it could be, but I think it'll work," Daisy says, leans across the desk to show him her diagrams, elaborate on the plan, and Coulson hates how stretched their resources are, hates that Daisy is in the field all the time and when she gets back she's up with paperwork until midnight, but god, he loves working with Daisy so much.

 

+

 

Coulson can't sleep, and it's familiar enough, although at least this time around it's just old-fashioned insomnia, nothing about alien carving. He lies in bed for long enough that he knows he won't drift off before he gives up, pads down to the kitchen for a glass of milk.

He doesn't expect to find Daisy leaning against the fridge, holding a glass in one hand and a quart of milk in the other, staring off into the middle distance.

"Daisy?" he says gently, and she jumps. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, I thought you'd, you know, feel me coming."

"I was miles away," she admits, looks down at the milk in her hands. "Can't sleep."

"Neither," he says, "I see we had the same idea."

"You know what I really want?" she asks, setting the milk down on the bench and reaching into the cabinet for another glass. Her sweatshirt rides up, and Coulson looks away from the strip of bare skin between her flannel pajama pants and the hem of her sweater.

"Hmm?" he asks, and she turns to look at him.

"A fluffernutter," she says, "and a big glass of milk, and some late-night tv and a blanket. You want?"

"Sure," Coulson agrees, "although I have no idea where you're going to find marshmallow creme at this time."

"Fitz has some," she tells him slyly, and he laughs, helps her put together the peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches. She leans in against him at the bench, presses her shoulder and arm and hip against his side, and it should feel strange, but in the late night quietness of the base, it's just warm and comforting and easy. They make a plate of sandwiches, refill their milk, settle in on the couch, and Daisy wasn't kidding about the blanket, apparently, because she ducks out and comes back carrying the comforter from her bunk, tucks it carefully over the both of them.

"Comfortable?" he asks wryly, as she wriggles in a little closer, and she lifts up his arm around her, settles her head against his shoulder.

"Now I am," she says, as if this is fine, as if this is normal, and takes a bite of her sandwich, sighs in contentment. "You want to pick a movie, or shall I?"

"Go ahead," Coulson says, and almost against his will, he's relaxing into it. Daisy is warm against him, and her comforter smells like her, and the combination of peanut butter, marshmallow and soft white bread is oddly perfect for a one am watch of War Games.

He nods off halfway through the movie, with Daisy already fast asleep, sliding down into him until her head's pillowed against his chest, and it's probably deeply inappropriate but he can't bring himself to care. He just shifts up onto the couch, stretches out until he's properly horizontal, tugs the comforter more over them both and lets himself drift into sleep.

When he wakes in the morning, Daisy's still asleep, and she's turned over in the night, is lying pressed against him and her arm slung warm over his chest. Her breath tickles the side of his neck. Coulson's never felt more contented.

 

+

 

The thing is, he  _was_ offering, when he said someone should take care of Daisy. She just does so much, and he wants her to wake up to something nice, sometimes, a breakfast that says someone cares. Living in a safe house for a week, maintaining an undercover identity, it seems like a perfect time.

Croissants are probably overkill, but Coulson's a classy guy, and croissants are  _delicious_.

He remembers how she said strawberry jelly was better than grape, buys fresh strawberries from the farmer's market, recalls the combination of strawberries and cream cheese and fresh cracked pepper. It's a little strange, maybe, but she might like it. He loves it. He cuts open the croissants, carefully fills them with soft cheese, fresh sliced strawberries, salt and pepper. He makes what he thinks is pretty much a perfect latte, and apparently has perfect timing too, because thirty seconds later, Daisy walks into the kitchen, yawning.

"Oh god, that coffee smells good," she groans, sighs in happiness when he pushes the mug into her hands. " _Yes_ , thanks, Phil, you're a lifesaver."

"I, uh," he says, suddenly shy. "I made you breakfast, I hope that's okay."

"You-" Daisy replies, stares at him and then at the plated croissants, the pitcher of orange juice. "Oh my  _god_."

"I mean, technically I made  _us_ breakfast. It's not, like, fancy," he says, "it's basically just sandwiches, but I think they're pretty good." Daisy sits down at the table, apparently a little dazed, sips her coffee and sighs again in pleasure.

"Croissants?" she says. "Croissants are not 'just sandwiches', Phil Coulson, this is incredible." She takes her first bite, closes her eyes. "What even  _is that_ ," she moans, and Coulson smiles, can't help it. He's a sap.

"You like it?" he asks, quiet and pleased, and Daisy opens her eyes, looks across at him with a knowing smirk.

"Strawberry croissants and lattes made specially for me?  _Yes_ , Phil, I like it."

"Okay," he breathes. "Good."

The croissants are just as good as he remembers, buttery-flaky and sour-sweet from the strawberries and cream cheese. When they finish, Coulson notices Daisy has a streak of strawberry juice on her lip, and without really thinking, he reaches out to wipe it away.

She catches his wrist, looks down at his finger, makes eye contact, and then slowly, deliberately, closes her mouth around his finger, sucks it clean.

" _Oh_ ," he says, instantly hard, and Daisy smiles, releases his hand, licks her lips.

"I was thinking," she murmurs, "we got up pretty early, right?"

"Yeah," Coulson agrees, "why?"

"Well," Daisy tells him, "it's just that there's no reason you couldn't take me back to bed right now."

"Oh," he says again, "oh,  _fuck_ , yes," and then they're hauling each other together, chairs scraping across the kitchen floor as Daisy slams her mouth onto his. She tastes like coffee and butter and strawberries, and she's kissing him like she doesn't need to breathe, insistent and hard and  _needing_ in a way that makes Phil want to get his hands on her skin.

"Bed," she says, "come on, I'm not kidding around here," and he picks her up, carries her to the bedroom, unbuttons her neat white shirt and drops it unceremoniously to the floor.

 

+

 

Daisy naked in his bed is something Phil thinks he might never get used to. He skims his hand down her side, brushes kisses against her throat and her shoulder, breathes her in, and she hums in satisfaction, throws one leg up over his hip.

"This is nice," she whispers, twines her fingers into his. "Let's never get out of bed."

"Sounds good to me," he agrees, enjoys the heat of her skin against his. They lie still for a few minutes, and Coulson feels himself start to drift off. It's late. He's sleepy.

"Phil," Daisy says, after another minute, and he mutters into the pillow. " _Phil_."

"Whazzit," he mutters again, and she shifts, wriggles against him.

"Wake up," she laughs. "I'm hungry."

"Hmmm?" he says, drapes his arm across her and tries to pull her in closer.

"I'm  _hungry_ ," she tells him, "can't you make me a sandwich?"

"Last time you ate a sandwich in bed you left crumbs everywhere," he reminds her, cracking open one eye. She looks a little abashed, strokes her fingers down his jaw.

"I promise I won't leave crumbs in the bed," she says very solemnly, and he sighs, opens the other eye.

"What kind of sandwich," he asks, sits up, and Daisy grins, pushes herself up too, shifts so she's in his lap.

"Surprise me," she says against his mouth, kisses him slow and sure, and the way his fingers slide down her skin, the way she grinds against him, he doesn't wind up making her a sandwich at all.


End file.
